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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22541356">Trust Me. Please.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sun_Spark/pseuds/Sun_Spark'>Sun_Spark</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Parents, Angst, Billy Hargrove &amp; Maxine "Max" Mayfield Sibling Relationship, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bonding, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Billy Hargrove, Healing, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, I mean come on do you watch the show? Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Language, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash, Referenced violence, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, The kids are mentioned - Freeform, established relationship by the end</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:14:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22541356</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sun_Spark/pseuds/Sun_Spark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve confronts Billy after a violent argument between him and Max, asks him what happened, why he and Max hate each other. Billy, worn down by life and too tired to put up his usual facade, tells him. He tells him a story about finding love, of having it torn away from him in blood and bruises by his father, of being torn away from his home and brought to a little town, of protecting his little sister from the monster around the corner, under the bed, in every shadow of their 'home', no matter how much she hates him. Billy tells him a story, and Steve, knowing what it's like to have an abusive father, Steve listens.</p><p>Or</p><p>Billy lets out years of pain from his father's abuse, explains why he and Max can't get along, and admits to protecting her no matter the cost. Steve listens and finds excuses to keep Billy around. Love and trust and a relationship form.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>165</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Trust Me. Please.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>ALL OF THIS IS REFERENCE AND NOT DESCRIBED. Reference to homophobia and abuse. Reference to a hate crime (beating). Reference to child abuse (mental, physical, and emotional). NEIL HARGROVE PEOPLE! Also, Steve's dad because I have a feeling he's not a good parent either.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Babysitting was far more enjoyable a pastime than Steve would readily, much less verbally, admit, and he was fond of the little shits that kept getting him in trouble. Babysitting Billy Hargrove however….that was a bit much. He wasn’t really <i>‘babysitting’</i>, given that he had seen the boy get into a fight with Max and storm out, but he was definitely blaming whatever instincts babysitting his kids in this helltown had instilled in him for the fact that he’d followed the boy out to the back parking lot some twenty minutes later. Billy hadn’t left, the tell-tale sound of the Camaro hadn’t even started up, much less reved off, and Steve found him sat against his car, strangely idle, with a beer in hand. </p><p>He knew from experience that alcohol and Billy didn’t mix well, that it usually led to violence, but he was pretty sure he could run quicker than Billy could get off the ground. Besides, against the voice that was probably his better judgment telling him to leave it well enough alone, he had rationalized the supposed safety of this insanity with the demeanor of the slightly younger boy. When he’d found him he’d noted that Billy wasn’t just leaned against his car but slumped against it, beer held loosely, vacant but not dazed stare set out into the nothingness of the pavement not quite hidden in the dark, expression set almost grim. That had given Steve’s survival instincts, in all their shouting, pause. The sight of bruises highlighting the boy’s face and decorating the ribs now showing through an open shirt and jacket no longer zipped up as it had been half an hour earlier also made him pause and tipped the scales of his instincts firmly from <i>‘stupid idea - <b>RUN</b>’</i> to <i>‘concern’</i>. The memory of Billy’s fight with Max, filled with spitting hatred and anger, but underlined by real exasperation and what he almost wanted to call pain and….the type of anger born of betrayal and suffering, was the last thing his more-than-likely-permanently-concussed brain needed to decide that he was going to do this.</p><p>Billy didn’t attack him or yell when he approached him, didn’t even look up at the quiet and hesitant, but not at all timid, call of his name, so Steve decided his safety came second, because he was apparently in mother-hen mode. He sat down beside the boy, back pressed to the other half of the tire, arms not quite touching. They sat in silence for a while, which was enough to tell Steve that something was definitely different and very wrong. Billy didn’t look at him, didn’t complain, didn’t sneer or curse or spit, he didn’t even make a move to drink from the still half-full beer loosely rested against his knee. He just stared at the pavement in the near distance while Steve stared out at the forest blackened by nightfall. Idly he acknowledged that he should be worried about something coming out of those trees and attacking them, something with petals and rows of teeth that haunted his nightmares, but strangely, he couldn’t bring himself to care.</p><p>Eventually, he sighed heavily, breath turning to mist in the air that he tracked with his eyes. He didn’t get angry or offended on the kids’ behalf, didn’t insult the boy, didn’t even call his name, merely let his voice fill the space around and between them in low and tired tones.</p><p>“Why do you hate Max?” It wasn’t accusatory, angry, defensive, wasn’t even offended, it was just tired and low, curious and worn down, nothing more. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the bone-deep exhaustion that had clearly been wearing the boy down since he’d come to Hawkins, but Billy chose to answer him instead of attacking him. He didn’t look at him, but he laughed humorlessly, one short, barked sound.</p><p>“<i>‘Hate Max’?</i>” His head tilted back and rested against the tire well. “You got that wrong Harrington, she hates me. Guess it just became mutual after a while.”</p><p>Steve stared at him with no small amount of incredulous disbelief and curiosity, but still not with accusation. Something told him there was more to this than he knew, and he wasn’t going to start another fight, didn't have the wherewithal to. “You treat her like shit Billy, the fuck she do to earn that?”</p><p>Billy stared down at the bottle in his hand, turning it around slowly and watching the sparse light from the parking lot lamps filter through the glass and glint off the liquid. “You know why we’re here?” Steve didn’t answer, shook his head even though he wasn’t sure Billy would see it, the other boy continued regardless. “ ‘s cause my Dad’s an abusive, homophobic, racist piece of shit.”</p><p>Steve blanched at that. He’d suspected, but he’d never expected to hear those words come from Billy Hargrove’s mouth, much less in the flat, defeated tone they’d just fallen in. He swallowed thickly, trying to remove the block from his throat, and dared to ask the question he knew would have sparked rage and violence any other night. “What does that have to do with Max?” </p><p>Billy snorted, it sounded like a bitter laugh. “Little Maxine didn’t acclimate to the family so well, I didn’t acclimate well to her either, but I tried at least. She missed her dad, didn’t want to be part of a new family, and I guess I can’t fault her that…I didn’t want her or her mom either, but the shit you see between us now isn’t how it was then.” He took a drink of his beer, rather halfheartedly given that he got almost none of it but he set it back down without real thought and twisted his lips into a grimace like a smile that held nothing light or happy in it. “Don’t actually know what the fuck got into the little shit, but she was pissed at me for something. Decided to come up with a reason that she needed me when I wasn’t home, complained to <i>dear old dad</i> about it…told him where I was and who I was with...” The sneer and sarcasm dripping off of the term ‘dear old dad’ wasn’t lost on Steve, neither was the weary and painful tone as the other boy trailed off to once again stare off into the distance in silence.</p><p>He didn’t push, didn’t feel like he should rush this story, and eventually, Billy sighed again, stopped worrying his lip between his teeth and spoke again, voice grating over gravel and eyes never moving from where they were fixed off into the distance, seeing another time and place. </p><p>“My father’s a homophobic piece of shit. Max told him where I was and the only thing I remember after he showed up was waking up in the hospital from a ‘random mugging’.” He sneered over those words, but it fell back to nothingness as the next words fell in the form of a pained whisper. “Never knew if David died from it or not…just know he was worse off than me…can barely remember my blood coating everything and an unmoving body thrown away from me while my father raged....”</p><p>Steve felt sick. He’d had a theory, had more than a few suspicions born of experience. His own father wasn’t a kind man when he was home, but his old man, thankfully, relied mostly on emotional abuse and neglect, meted out over the mandatory phone calls that came in every few weeks or so. He didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure how to remove the block of sickness in his throat to say anything, but Billy seemed to have decided that he was going to say all of it this night, everything he'd been keeping buried under skin thickened by scar tissue and cloaked in anger, damn the consequences.</p><p>“Soon as I could be moved without it killing me we were in the car and on our way here.” He barked out a sound that probably would have been a laugh, but it was too twisted, too broken, too tired. “Max is mad about it, hates being here, hates leaving her friends and her dad. Blames me for it, says it’s my fault we got dragged here, like the little shit didn’t ruin my life, didn’t ruin someone else’s, maybe ended it, being petty over nothing.”</p><p>He barked out several laughs then, a handful of them falling over each other like broken glass, and Steve couldn’t pretend not to see the tears clinging to blond lashes, pooling in bright blue eyes turned to dull grey, couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear them choking off a throat ringed in finger-shaped bruises that he seriously doubted were from anything fun or consensual.</p><p>Billy laughed, a bitter, humorless sound matched by baring teeth that weren’t smiling. “Blames me and hates me, and doesn’t give two shits about the consequences of her actions as long as she can be angry at and blame me.” A bitter chuckle matched the first few tears to fall, the rest remaining stubbornly unmoving. “Any time she disobeys, any time she rebels, nothing happens to her. Every time she goes missing, runs off to have her playdates, my father’s fists decide to decorate my body. Every time she does something without telling me, or lies and does something else, the few important things I have get broken, and maybe I get sent out to hunt her down before my throat gets choked off. Every time she runs off to meet <i><b>Lucas</b></i>, despite my warnings, I get my ribs cracked if I’m lucky, end up on the floor with dislocated joints that I have to fix myself and concussions if I’m not.” He spat the boy’s name, and Steve couldn’t get past his horror or his lack of surprise long enough to find anything to say. Billy’s expression fell back into something almost contemplative, voice softening to apathetic musings. “He’s a racist bastard… probably more than half the reason he went after David ‘n me…other than the obvious disgrace of having a <i><b>“faggot” for a son.”</b></i> He did spit those words, but it didn’t seem like he could muster pretend anger anymore, couldn’t muster the very real anger either, all of it burned out into nothing but numbness and pain.</p><p>“D…Does Max know?” He couldn’t help the question, all the scenarios he had personally witnessed, actions of Max’s that would have set her step-father into a rage, suddenly flying behind his eyes. Too many to count. Billy barked out the first almost real laugh he’d heard so far, and somewhere in his mind he noted how disturbing it was that the bitter, suffering sound was almost identical to the boy’s normal laughter that rang down the school halls. </p><p>“You think she could live in a small house with that, with him and me and her coward of a mother, and not know?” He snorted. “How many times do you think she’s walked in to find me bloody on the floor, unable to get up?” He scoffed and shook his head, staring back down at the drink he wasn’t drinking anymore. “No way in hell she don’t know.” He muttered. </p><p>He shrugged then, a lopsided movement with only one shoulder. “Doesn’t matter though. She hates me, and I guess I hate her too…don’t think I’ll ever forgive her at least, so yeah, I guess that means I hate her. She keeps fucking up, by Neil Hargrove’s impossible and prejudiced standards, and I keep paying the price.” He smiled, sharp and bitter, voice taking a higher almost jovial tone. “But hey! That’s what older brothers do, right? Get in between the assholes and their sisters and take the beating? She hates me, I hate her, she acts out, I get beat, I get angry, she gets angrier, and no matter how much I make her life hell, how much she gives back as good as she gets, I keep protecting her. Ain’t that how it goes Stevie?”</p><p>He finally raised the glass to take a drink, but there was no energy to it, just a broken acceptance. Steve could have said a lot of things there, but sentiments like <i>‘it shouldn’t be this way’</i> or <i>‘I’m sorry’</i> wouldn’t just be obvious, they wouldn’t do any good here, would probably only cause more anger and more pain. So he stared out into the darkness and let the sickening feeling in his gut keep turning, suddenly glad his father was never home to beat him like he used to, that he instead stuck to phone calls to tell him how worthless and a waste of time and resources he was. Better judgment firmly out the window, his lips parted and he murmured a truth he'd kept buried firmly away from anyone’s eyes, went out of his way to act the opposite of in everyone’s watchful gazes.</p><p>“I’m Bi.”</p><p>Billy looked at him for the first time that night, and Steve could see well enough even from his peripheral that those blue eyes were far too clear to be drunk. “What?” It wasn’t mocking, which was reassuring, rather it was more disbelieving. Steve turned his head and met Billy’s eyes, oddly calm for once, not necessarily sure this wouldn’t yet turn to blows, but not anxious if it would or wouldn’t. Calmly and clearly he let the words fill the space between them.</p><p>“Against my better judgment, fuck that guy at this point, I said ‘I’m Bi.’” Billy’s nose crinkled when he was confused, and wasn’t that a detail Steve would remember, along with how child-like confusion sounded from his voice. “Why?” Steve just shrugged. “Guess I just wanted to tell you that I’m not gonna be an ass about that, not gonna say anything either cause it sucks, believe me I know.”</p><p>Billy stared at him for a moment, eyes shifting between blues and greens and greys searching his own for something, and Steve thought perhaps he found it, the invisible scars that matched Billy's own. The blonde scoffed a laugh, but it wasn’t mocking, just amused and tired and perhaps a little fond. “Alright Harrington.” He tilted his head back against the tire well and stared up at the stars, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Don’t expect us to be best friends…but alright.”</p><p>Steve chuckled and looked up as well, wry grin fully in place. He wouldn’t have expected anything else, had expected far less. They didn’t say anything else, just sat there until younger voices started calling out for Steve, until Billy told him he ‘should go’, but not in a tone that said he was sending him away, just stating the obvious.</p><p>They didn’t become friends, didn’t hang out or stop their sniping in school, their rivalry in basketball, or their fights over nothing at all. But they recognized something else to it now, recognized the restless anger behind violent fists and harsh words that found each other because they couldn’t be turned against horrible father figures. They didn’t hold grudges over the bruises anymore, took them as the price for having an escape, a release for it all. </p><p>As far as anyone could tell nothing changed between or around them, but Billy found himself alone less when the kids were off on an activity. Steve found more excuses to just happen to be in the other boy’s space when neither of them had anywhere to be. They found themselves sitting together when they escaped on their own to the quarry late at night, finding the other there as well without planning. Found themselves sitting together instead of fighting, sharing cigarettes and alcohol of a dozen flavors rather than tearing up the streets and daring death to take them in twisted metal and flames. </p><p>The kids got used to Billy being in the background when Steve was with them, were forced too. They’d reacted badly, vocally, and angrily, all their voices overlapping as they’d protested the older boy’s presence several feet away. Their insults, Mike, Dustin, and his own sister Max’s ringing the loudest, had garnered a sneer and glare from the silent boy, him controlling and containing himself. He didn’t owe it to them, didn’t owe it to Steve either, but he found himself wishing to keep whatever this tentative peace was, if only so he wouldn’t be so alone anymore, even if he wouldn’t admit nor acknowledge his attachment to the maternal boy. Their multitude of cries had been silenced in a single moment by Steve, the steel beneath the boy’s reprimand and demand that they ‘better fucking get used to it’ startling them into silence, forcing them to accept that he wasn’t backing down and Billy wasn’t going away, because Steve Harrington had decided he was going to stay. He didn’t do anything really, didn’t help or interact with them, he was just there, silent and present. That seemed to be enough for Steve, and for him, so the kids learned to shut up real quick, knowing there was more to this, and also knowing not to push on this particular topic, even Dustin.</p><p>They couldn’t tell you which one of them started it, but it surprised neither of them when they shared a kiss on a cold night up at the quarry, no alcohol, no cigarettes, just a bruise on Billy’s cheek and an equally painful phone call in Steve’s memory. Self-preservation dictated that they tell no one, but the longer they danced around in one another’s orbits, grounding one another and pulling each other back from the edge of death and violence, the less they cared. Bruises turned from violence to passion, fights became a game rather than an explosion, and they learned to be vulnerable with one another in a way they couldn’t be with anyone else, with people who didn’t, couldn’t understand. </p><p>They continued to disappoint their fathers, continued to protect the kids that had somehow changed from being <i>‘Steve’s’</i> to being <i><b>‘their’s’</b></i>, and bided their time until they could just get in the car and go. Until they could go and find a home somewhere where bruises wouldn’t fall like decorations from violent hatred, where they would only ever dust each other’s skin from wanted passion and not anger turned to abuse. Somewhere they would be safe and answer to no one and nothing other than themselves. Until then, they could deal with late nights mapping the stars at the quarry, long days losing time protecting the kids from otherworldly creatures, and shadows found for hidden kisses and healing bruises.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, let me know what you think about my first Stranger Things fic if you please. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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